


small heroics

by bluewalk



Series: 30_onepiece: Sanji [8]
Category: One Piece
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-06
Updated: 2011-12-06
Packaged: 2017-10-26 23:50:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/289252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluewalk/pseuds/bluewalk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[#4 forgiveness] <em>he thinks he's going to believe it.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	small heroics

The dreams don’t come often, but when they do, he is always nine years old again and Zeff is a hulking presence, ominous and silent, arms crossed and mouth deep-grim. Deep down, he always knows that it’s not really Zeff, because Zeff has never looked at him like that, with such contempt and resentment that he feels as if he will choke on the guilt. It’s hard to remember, harder to believe, yes, but he _knows_. Deep down, he does know.

But on the surface, he is always afraid. There is the pulse of fear right under his skin, words of doubt right behind his teeth. In the dreams, he is always nine years old and terrified, not of death or of starvation but of this Zeff who hates him in the way he knows Zeff should.

Zeff is half a world away and he _knows_ that, and he also knows that the Zeff in these dreams is only a phantom of his own creation, but he always wakes up crying anyway.

He always wakes up crying because in the end, in the dreams, he always forgets. He forgets and it’s not until he wakes up with a sob in his throat that he finally remembers again, remembers what’s real and what’s imagined, the things only he inflicts upon himself. And then he feels stupid, gasping in the dark, the soft snores of his crew around him, the distant creaking of the ship. He feels ashamed because despite all the self-imposed guilt and the silent, fervent promises sworn in his waking hours, in the dreams he is always begging, _don’t leave me to die please_ , begging because he forgets that Zeff has already given him everything without being asked, and when he remembers this, he feels he might break under the weight of it.

“Sanji,” comes a voice in the dark, suddenly. “Sanji, it’s me.”

He freezes, considers pretending he’s still asleep, but he can see bright, round eyes looking straight at him. He swallows hard, hides the shame and guilt under his tongue, under lock. He whispers back, “I know, Chopper.”

“Are you okay?”

He wants so desperately to be able to say yes. He wants to say yes, even though Chopper would tell right away that he’s lying because it’s so stupidly obvious. “Yeah,” he lies anyway. “Go back to sleep.”

“You kept saying ‘I’m sorry.’” There’s a soft urgency in Chopper’s voice that rattles warning bells in his head. “You kept saying ‘I’m sorry,’” Chopper repeats. “Are you okay, Sanji?”

“Yeah,” he answers, and the lie comes quicker this time because of necessity. “Yeah, I’m fine. Don’t worry. Go to sleep, Chopper.”

It’s dark, so he can’t quite make out what’s happening, but there is the rustle of blankets and Chopper’s antlered silhouette, and then a sudden weight lands on his chest, small and furry and warm.

“Oof,” he says halfheartedly. “A little warning next time, reindeer.”

“Sanji,” whispers Chopper, brown eyes wide, blue nose just inches away from his own, close enough to smell the salt of his tears. “Are you okay?” he asks again.

“Yes,” he insists, “yes.” He’s usually a pretty good liar, he thinks. Not a grand storyteller like Usopp, not an entertainer, but he can craft masks and personas and confidence like it’s a fine art, and he tries not to think what that means about himself. Tonight, however, there is only Sanji in his own skin, and he continues doggedly, ineffectually, “Bad dream, that’s all.”

“Why were you saying ‘I’m sorry’?”

Sanji doesn’t say anything for a long time, can’t think of what to say or how to say it, can’t think how to be just himself and vulnerable, and Chopper waits anxiously, a nervous weight on his ribs. “Why do you want to know?” he asks instead.

It’s Chopper’s turn to hesitate, head bowed, tapping his hooves together lightly, and Sanji thinks he’s about to drop it when he says, quietly, “Because you sounded like me.”

And Sanji can’t help it, Chopper sounds so sad and scared in the dark full of monsters that Sanji reaches out and brings him close enough to feel his tiny heartbeat against his own. Sanji knows that Chopper’s hooves are small enough to fit in the palm of his hand, that Chopper’s entire body is small enough to be cradled in the crook of his arms, and the thought makes Sanji forget everything else and hold him closer.

“Do you feel it too, Sanji?” Chopper is whispering, voice muffled, and Sanji knows that he means only one thing.

He was there when Kureha recounted Chopper’s story, told them of years of loneliness and cold rejection before, one day, an acceptance that meant so much that the bleeding heart almost burst to bear it. Then came hope and happiness and warmth, dreams of cherry blossoms and determination, but—as it is with too many stories—there was also death lurking close. Skull and crossbones and a poison cherished. A final stand. An empty castle.

When Chopper sobs into his shirt, “If only I hadn’t been so stupid,” Sanji hears in his head an echo of his own voice saying, “If only I hadn’t been so weak,” and the recognition twists in his gut like one of Zoro’s katana.

“Chopper,” he whispers.

But Chopper is sobbing, “Why did he do it?” and Sanji can remember all the times he’s asked the exact same question, half-wild from trauma and guilt, unable to understand the magnitude of what was granted to him so he demanded, _why did you do it, old man_. This lingering question of sacrifice that compels him to give life to an enemy who will turn around and try to kill him, that compels Chopper to take Rumble Ball after Rumble Ball despite the risks he knows can be deadly. The both of them trying desperately, fatally to measure up to the men who had given them everything even though they cannot understand why.

“Why’d he do it, Sanji?” Chopper is trembling in his arms, and Sanji needs an answer. He needs an answer, and if not for himself, then he needs one for Chopper, who is too young and too kind for this kind of remorse, deep enough to swallow men whole.

“Because he loved you,” he hears himself saying, voice barely above a breath, but he knows there is no bravado in his words this time, only truth and honest confidence. “He wanted to show you how much it meant that you went so far for him. He loved you, and he wanted you to know. Don’t you forget.”

“ _Sanji_ ,” Chopper wails and Sanji hastily covers his mouth with his hand.

“Hey, not so loud, buddy,” he chides gently, and Chopper blinks up at him, eyes big and bright with tears, and Sanji can only smile. “There’s nothing in the world you have to apologize for.”

Then Chopper is hugging him, tight enough to squeeze the breath from him, tight enough so that his ribs creak, and Chopper is saying, “You too, Sanji.”

There is a sudden lump in his throat that he was not expecting, and he’s hugging Chopper back, shoulders hunched and arms locked. He does not dare to breathe yet. “Yeah?” he manages.

“Yeah.”

He needs to ask, can’t help himself, hopeful and young, something to help him remember when the hours are late—“You think he forgives me?”

“Nothing to forgive. You were worth everything.”

A laugh escapes him then, more of relief than of amusement, bubble of emotion in the back of his throat, and he buries his face into Chopper’s fur, swallows hard to keep from breaking. “Thanks,” he rasps, and he thinks he’s going to believe it.

Around him, he feels a tension seep from the room, and he realizes for the first time that everyone else had been awake all along, had probably woken the same time Chopper had when they heard him sleep-murmuring breathless apologies into the night. His nakama holding their breath with him, and he cannot put into words how much that means.

He’s too relieved and too exhausted and too grateful to feel embarrassed, only closes his eyes and says, “Thanks,” one more time, loud enough so they will know it was meant for them.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted 21 August 2011.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Chinese translation on "small heroics"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/399311) by [renata](https://archiveofourown.org/users/renata/pseuds/renata)




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